Blood, Roses And Wine
by longingparadise
Summary: Henri "Harry" Durant escapes from the horrors of Grindelwald's and Hitler's occupation in France to Britain. Upon finding out that his father is Henry Potter, the Potters reluctantly accept him into their family. Apparently, being an illegitimate child wasn't so important if you were of pure blood. Or if you were Tom Riddle, the brilliant boy everyone but Harry adores.
1. If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going

**Blood, Roses and Wine**

 _A/N: Some quick notes:_

 _'Maman' means 'Mother/Mum'.  
The translations for the German expressions are in the endnotes. I recommend you read it without the translations first since this chapter is written from Harry's POV, who doesn't understand any German either._

 _It's been a long time since I posted something. Hope you enjoy!_

 **.**

 **1\. If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going**

 **.**

The scent of blood, roses and wine stung in his nose.

Today, the perfume Maman insisted on wearing would get them killed. Grandmother had wrinkled her nose at the smell and told her to stop acting like someone's mistress if she ever planned on finding a respectable husband one day. Henri, despising the mere notion of a stepfather, had been glad his mother had applied double the amount of rose-scented perfume just to spite the old hag. Until now.

Blood had soaked through the wood panels and was dripping into her flaxen hair. Just an hour ago, Maman and Henri had left Grandmother's chateau to run errands in town. Now they were sitting in the dingy basement of a little wine shop, watching the floor above rattle under heavy boots. The strange men were shouting something in a foreign language.

'Please,' the shop-owner cried, 'take all my money but-'

Maman's hands pressed against his ears but she couldn't cover his eyes. He saw the flash of green light, so bright it illuminated the narrow basement.

He was shaken lightly by her soft, trembling hands. Her rosy pearl complexion had paled into ashen grey. She nodded towards an empty wine barrel in the corner of the room. Soundlessly, he climbed into the barrel, but before she could close it, he grabbed her wrist.

' _What about you?'_ he asked silently, just by focusing his eyes into hers.

She pressed her lips into a tight line and shook her head before pressing the barrel shut. 'Epoximise, Silencio,' she whispered, just before two men stormed into the basement.

 **.**

Henri startled awake. The taste of metallic blood, acidic rose-perfume and rich burgundy wine clung to the back of his throat. For one moment, he was back in the barrel. Maybe if he pressed himself against its wall, Maman would fit inside, too. He'd always been a small child, _mon petit_ , as she used to call him.

A shoulder bumped into his and he bit his tongue to swallow the scream stuck in his throat. He wasn't in that basement anymore. The walls of the barrel weren't caging him in. Anytime he wanted, he could leave this compartment, wait for the next stop and get off the train.

But he wouldn't. He needed to get to Orlèans.

'You were making strange faces. Did you dream?' the little girl sitting in front of him asked.

'Anna!' a woman with a frazzled bun silenced her.

Henri's eyes wandered over the square buttons and intricate stitching of her coat. It was a piece from a designer his mother had adored. Grandmother had liked to turn her nose up at muggle clothing. Maman, on the other hand, had always said that every mind could create beauty. Henri had been saving some money to buy her one of his dresses for her birthday.

This woman's coat was no longer pretty. The hem was unravelling, the threadbare fabric unfit for this year's cold February. Once, this family might've been rich. The occupying forces must've taken whatever they could get their hands on.

'Where are you headed towards?' the man sitting next to him asked. Despite the circumstances, he was cleanly shaven, his hair neatly combed. 'You shouldn't be travelling alone during these times.'

'Philippe!' the woman hissed.

Henri honestly didn't blame her. This wasn't the time to look out for strange teenagers, not if you were a poor muggle family on the run for your life.

'I doubt we share the same destination,' he said, noting the woman relaxing.

'Are you sure?' the man pressed. 'We're on our way to Toulouse. No Germans, no Italians, no coasts. It doesn't get much safer in France these days.'

Henri gulped. Had Grindelwald's troops reached Toulouse? Better not to know. It wasn't like he could tell these people to return where they'd fled from.

'I'm headed North,' he admitted, 'towards Orléans.'

'Orléans?' the woman gasped, a concerned frown now settling on her face, too. 'Are you insane? You know what's happening there, no?'

Henri nibbled at his lip. It was pointless to explain it to them. They couldn't understand that the only portkey that would get him out of this hellhole lied somewhere in a cathedral in Orléans. Remaining in France wasn't an option. He had tried. What places weren't occupied by Grindelwald's army, was ruled by the German troops. Without a wand, he didn't stand a chance against either of them.

'I know,' he said, 'but I have to.' Before the man could press the issue, he rose and zipped his jacket up to his throat. 'Excuse me, I've reached my stop.'

He pulled his backpack out from under his seat. With a nod to the parents and a smile for the little girl he left the compartment.

Ice cracked underneath his feet when he finally stepped off the train. "CHÂTEAUROUX," the large sign at the station said. Henri didn't have the time to admire it. Left and right people were bustling around, hurrying into the train that'd take them south. Despite the size of the large crowd, it was oddly silent. The hurried steps and ringing of the train were the only sources of noise. People were stone-faced and mute.

He entered the station, a crowded hall with muddy-wet stone floors, filled with humid warmth. Taking a free seat, he used the last opportunity to study his map away from the cold.

He'd calculated a thirty hour march from Châteauroux to Orléans. A little more if he took breaks. He'd walked a lot in the past months, but he wasn't sure if he'd manage this without any breaks. He had no more bread left and he had to spare his energy for when anything happened on the way. Confrontation was guaranteed.

With a shiver running down his sweat-slick spine, he stood up and left the station. There was no use in thinking about it. He had to get moving.

He tied the wool scarf his mother had knitted him five years ago tightly around his neck, put his fists into his pockets and started walking. The warmth of the station had long been chased away by the biting frost. Thick snowflakes were covering the view.

 **.**

His legs had been cramping, his soles covered in blisters when he'd reached the border to the occupied area. He'd debated taking a break before stepping into the lion's den, but had decided against it. Now, eight hours after passing the order and twenty hours since departing from Châteauroux, he regretted that decision.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the papers quoting the new British muggle minister say, 'If you're going through hell, keep going.'

'If you're going through hell, keep going,' Henri muttered through laboured breathing, lifting his leaden leg, and landing it with a painful step forward. He tripped over a root and caught himself on his hands and knees before hitting the ground.

Pretentious pieces of wisdom were easy to say when you're sitting in front of a cosy fire after a hearty dinner. Less easy when you're exhausted enough to roll up on the freezing ground and hungry because snow was the only thing to pass your gullet in two days.

Still, he had to keep going. What else was there left to do?

Maman used to say that people like him and her had to try harder than anyone else. Others would turn their noses up at them. But the only thing that mattered was what they knew of themselves. Pride was one of the few things they had and would keep even in their stiff, lifeless fingers.

She had fought till the end for him. Dying here in the middle of the forest for nothing would be equal to spitting on her grave.

He pushed himself off the ground and forced his heavy legs forward.

A twig cracked, but not underneath his feet. He froze.

There, behind the snow-laden bushes crouched a boy little older than him. His heart stopped when he recognized the grey uniform with the white eagle on its chest. Of course, the rifle trained on him was also a good indicator of who he was standing in front of.

'Hast du eine Erlaubnis dich hier aufzuhalten?' the soldier barked.

'I don't speak any German,' Henri answered quietly, his green eyes big and round, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible. Probably useless. Most of them got off on defenceless victims.

Unimpressed, the soldier's icy eyes wandered over his malnourished form. 'Hände hoch!' he ordered, no longer angry, but just as assertive.

This time, Henri understood. In the past months, he'd heard that order many times. He held his shaking hands up, his palms open and empty. The man waved his rifle to the left. 'Los.'

Henri hesitantly swerved from his path. The soldier's thick boots crunched over the fresh snow as he followed him. When the cold tip of the rifle pressed into the small of his waist, Henri gasped and tripped over a branch. He was already scrambling to get back up when the soldier stomped on his ankle. His bone cracked like a lone, skinny twig. Henri whimpered through clenched teeth.

'Steh schon auf,' the man scoffed.

Henri rose on shaky legs, careful to shift his weight onto his right uninjured ankle. The man was following, his rifle still glued to Henri's back. It was hard to breath, not because of his broken bone, not even because of the rifle, but because he knew what would happen now.

The soldier would bring him to a camp. Either to work until he died, to be experimented on until he died, or simply to die. They liked to do it with toxic gas that took fifteen minutes to finally kill you off. His best bet was to be shot on sight.

Henri couldn't go there. Not so soon after Grindelwald.

His broken ankle throbbed and he fell again. He turned to his back, clenching his hands around his ankle and whimpering softly. The soldier rolled his eyes and motioned for him to get up.

Henri shifted onto one knee. Quick as a snake attacking its prey he grasped the barrel in his left hand and pulled his knife out of his sock before burying it in the inside of the man's thigh. The soldier yelled and pulled the trigger, but the bullet hit the ground.

The barrel was hot underneath his palm, but he clenched his hand and pulled the rifle out of the soldier's grasp. He staggered to his feet, training the rifle onto the boy lying on the ground. He was muttering something, holding his hands around his bleeding thigh.

But all Henri could think of was the shot – that ear-shattering bang that was still echoing off the trees, ringing in his head. The soldiers' camp couldn't be too far away.

'Shit, shit, shit,' he groaned, tears brimming in his eyes. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Not that he'd actually thought this through.

He took a deep breath, held it for ten quick heartbeats, and released it slowly. _All good, Henri. You can handle this. Orléans is only ten hours away. You will reach the portkey and get the hell out of this place. You just have to focus. Freaking out is for later._

What would Maman do?

He took off his backpack, and searched for the bottle full of polyjuice potion he'd brewed for when he'd actually reach Orléans. Crouching down, he plucked a few blonde strands out of the unconscious boy's head and added it to the potion. The muddy fluid changed into a deep purple colour.

' _Now, wave your wand to complete the potion,'_ the memory of Maman said in his mind. But he didn't have a wand. It'd been snapped weeks ago.

Harry froze when a deep voice reached his ears. 'Paul!' it was shouting. 'Paul!'

Taking a deep breath, he drank the potion as it was, barely tasting it. He rushed to the soldier now lying still on the ground, took the grey uniform jacket off and pulled it over his own black coat. Just as he was about to pull the man's trousers off, he noticed the large blood-stain.

'Paul!'

The bushes were being rustled.

'Paul!'

Frantically, he scooped snow over the body and heaved bundles of branches and twigs on top.

'Paul!'

The steps were getting clearer.

'Paul!'

He hurried behind a bush, dropped his trousers and started to pee.

Two men in identical grey uniforms appeared from between the trees, each of them holding a rifle.

'Pa- Ach, da bist du ja!' the short one said. 'Warum hast du nicht geantwortet, wenn du nur pissen warst? Wir rufen schon eine Ewigkeit nach dir.'

Shit. The potion seemed to have done its job, but he'd barely understood two words of the man's question. He could nod or shake his head. But if the man had asked for more than that, he was screwed.

Henri decided to pull his pants up and shrug.

The men scoffed and rolled their eyes, accepting his answer. Henri was careful not to sigh loudly. Now if they would go about their way, he could go about his and they would never meet again.

The men passed him, rifles resting on their shoulders, when one of them turned around.

'Hast du eigentlich einen Schuss abgefeuert? Wir haben einen lauten Knall gehört.'

Henri shrugged again, but this time, the man raised a confused brow. 'Was denn jetzt? Hast du was gehört oder nicht?'

Henri's hands clenched around the grip of his stolen rifle. Even if he'd manage to shoot one, the other might shoot him before he got the chance to do so first. The noise would alert even more soldiers. No, he had to take his chances.

'Nein,' he said, the only German word he could say besides "Ja".

The soldier shrugged. 'Muss wohl jemand anderes gewesen sein.'

Henri held his breath while the two soldiers finally turned around and left. He fell to his knees. 'Fuck,' he whispered. That was close.

Leaning his weight onto the rifle, he stood up. He had to get away while he still could. Knowing his life, luck wouldn't last. He should take the rifle with him, just in case.

His gaze wandered over the lump of snow on the side. Although Henri had to hurry, he was standing frozen and staring at the snow pile he'd buried a man under. If the soldier was discovered, he would be returned to his camp, heal for some weeks, and return to killing people. Like Grindelwald's army, they were murdering innocent children, the helpless elderly, and desperate mothers.

No one had had mercy with Maman. No, they'd made her suffer.

The Crucios had went on for what felt like hours as Henri had been stuck in the barrel, unable to get out because of the charm his mother had cast. He'd screamed until he spit blood, but no noise ever left his wooden cage.

By the time the Avada Kedavra came, he'd lost his voice. Through the cracks in the barrel, his mother's eyes had stared into his when the curse hit. They continued staring at him, sky-blue irises torn wide open, for two days.

Two days he could barely remember anymore. Only the awful smell of metallic blood, artificial roses, and residue wine remained long after some lone survivors found him in his barrel.

Henri dug his feet into the snow and returned to his path towards Orléans.

 **.**

 _A/N:  
_ _Translations:  
\- Hast du eine Erlaubnis dich hier aufzuhalten? __= Do you have permission to be here?  
\- Hände hoch! = Hands up!  
\- Los. __= Go on/Come on  
\- Steh schon auf. = Get up already.  
\- Hast du eigentlich einen Schuss abgefeuert? Wir haben einen lauten Knall gehört. __= Did you fire a shot? We've heard a loud bang.  
\- Was den jetzt? __Hast du was gehört oder nicht? = So what is it?_ _Did you hear something, or didn't you?  
\- Nein = No  
\- Ja = Yes  
\- Muss wohl jemand anderes gewesen sein. = Must've been someone else._

 _Epoximise is a sticking charm according to the card games and harrypotter wikia._

 _About the last name 'Durant': It comes from the Latin omen name 'Durandus', meaning 'enduring'._

 _About the story: Henri will be 'Harry' when he arrives in Britain (unless you're attached to calling him 'Henri', I don't care either way to be honest). It will be some time until he meets Tom._

 _Tell me what you thought of this chapter! Criticism is welcome! This is the first thing I've posted in months, so I can really use some encouragement!_

 _You can also contact me through tumblr. (Link in profile)_


	2. They Will All Be Thrown Out Of France

_A/N: Thank you guys so much for all the support you showed the first chapter. It really encouraged me and helped me to get back into my groove. I usually don't take this long to update, but I was on vacation and didn't have my laptop with me. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter :)_

 **.**

 **2** **.** **They Will All Be Thrown Out Of France, Except Those Who Die There**

 **.**

Orléans could've been five minutes or a year's march away. The time passed in a haze, like in a fever dream. He didn't even feel the cold anymore. Like a wooden doll he stomped on, his limbs strung on threads to the moon shining on its first quarter.

His pale lashes had long turned back into black and the healthy glow of his skin had dimmed into his usual flat pallor. When he hugged his chest, he could feel the sharp outlines of his ribs under the layers of two coats. Gradually, the ground had grown closer as he'd shrunk from a soldier into a fugitive.

As he changed, so did his environment.

No trees were masking his surroundings anymore. Broken windows, open roofs, torn-down walls and holes in the streets lay exposed. Fat snowflakes kept falling, but barely managed to carpet the destruction.

Unbothered from the thinly-veiled chaos, a stream ran calmly through the snow. The water was glistening in the soft moonlight. There was no bridge, but the water wasn't too deep. He could see the grey pebbles at the ground and it was only about ten metres to the other shore.

Tentatively, he dipped his foot in. It was freezing. With clenched teeth, he stepped in. At least, the cold numbed the pain of his broken ankle.

The water was reaching his hips as he marched forward, backpack held over his head, until he reached the shore. He heaved himself onto the ground and sat there with chattering teeth and knees pulled to his chest.

On the moving surface of the water he could still see Paul's blue eyes staring back at him. Oddly enough, he looked more alive now than when he did actually standing in front of Henri.

He didn't need to see Paul's reflection to remember. Everything about him, from the strong line of his jaw to the freckles on his crooked nose to the way his blonde brows blended into his complexion, was clear on his mind.

Henri blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Paul was gazing up at him. Had the cold numbed the pain of his cut-up thigh like it had with Henri's broken ankle?

Supporting himself with the rifle, he stood up. He scoffed.

His rifle, his jacket, his identity – everything was stolen. Henri Durant finally had another title to add to his name. No longer just a bastard, but also a thief. _And a murderer._ What would Maman think if she could see him like this?

He was startled out of his thoughts when a creak broke through the silence - a high, squeaky sound that was nothing like the rushing of water or the bristling of trees. The rifle he'd just regarded with disgust was pressed to his chest like an old, faithful friend.

There was a minute of nothing. But wind and water were burying a deep hum that grew and grew until he recognized the familiar beating of boots against asphalt.

He ran to a nearby house, forgetting his broken ankle in his haste. Biting the insides of his cheeks, he pushed through the pain without as much as a wince as the hammering steps grew louder. Through the hole in the wall he climbed into the building. Half of the roof had come down. Hiding amidst the debris, he waited.

The marching grew louder until they were so clear that only the shaky wall separated them from Henri. The vibrations their steps send through the asphalt reached a broken tile on the rickety part of the roof. Henri watched it tremble as he listened to the sounds mellow and vanish. Taking a deep breath, he chanced a quick glance through the hole in the wall. Nothing. The streets were left abandoned once again.

Hunching over, he rummaged through his backpack. It took his trembling hands what felt like an eternity to find his map, and when he did, he was so distraught he couldn't focus. He'd studied this map hundreds of times, yet hours seemed to pass until he finally recognized the streets of Orléans.

According to the map, the stream he'd just passed came from the river Loire. The actual Loire ran through the centre of Orléans. It was the last big obstacle between him and the cathedral.

He leaned back with a deep sigh. He was nearly there. Three kilometres according to the map, not even two miles. Soon he would reach the towers Hugo and Maud had talked about.

' _Two identical towers soaring over the city. That's when you know you've reached the Cathedral of Orléans,'_ Maud had said, the hollows of her cheeks dark in the spare light of a torch. Her voice had been a hoarse breath of a whisper. They had to be careful since the guards never passed on an opportunity to punish them. They despised Hugo and Maud even more than Henri. To be fair, they liked the dirt under their shoes better than two muggleborns. In a sense, Hugo and Maud had been lucky. Most of their kind were killed on sight.

' _You have to walk through the aisle. Pass all the rows. Before you reach the altar, you turn right,'_ Hugo had murmured, his stare never swaying from the guards' backs. _'Behind the pillars is the entrance to the crypt.'_

Somewhere in the crypt lay the portkey. Neither Hugo, nor Maud had known more. Henri wondered whether they'd reached it already. They must've. He hadn't met many wizards or witches as brilliant as them. Right at this moment, while he was sitting in wet trousers amidst broken tiles, they were slurping at fruity drinks in Brazil, Egypt, or Mexico. Somewhere warm where people liked to laugh and always had enough to eat.

He folded the map to put it into the inside of his jacket, but the pocket was already filled with a frayed envelope. His fingers brushed over the writings on the back. It was addressed to Paul List, in small, swirly letters that reminded him of Maman's handwriting. With a frown, he crumpled both map and envelope up before stuffing them into the depths of his backpack.

He checked the street. No soul in sight. He lurched to the side alley, avoiding the main street. It was a difficult track. The ground was covered in mountains of brick and glass and other sorts of debris. Sometimes wind would rattle against the open windows or a stray cat would climb out of a rubbish bin and his heart would give out for some beats. On two separate occasions, he almost fired the rifle.

But there was another sound that made his blood race: The rushing of water. He'd reached the Loire.

He climbed into an abandoned house and crawled silently to the window. There, at the bridge, were two guards standing statue-still with firearms pressed against their chests. Even if he distracted them to leave their posts and ran fast enough to cross the three hundred metres before they returned, there were two more soldiers watching the other end of the bridge.

Lost in his musings, he didn't notice the rumbling of an engine until a truck blocked his view. Spewing smoke into his lungs, it made his eyes water while the driver chatted with the guards. But through his teary eyes he spotted some space on the loading area under the tarpaulin.

' _Mon petit,'_ Maman used to say. He could hear the smile in her voice.

Without another thought, he climbed out of the window, heaved himself onto the loading area and squeezed between the boxes. It smelled of smoke and stale iron. He could guess what was stored in here.

But there was a whiff of something else. Rich burgundy and flowers in bloom. It shouldn't be possible. He pinched his nose shut. With the edges of the boxes stabbing into his ribs, breathing was hard, but he'd rather be a little lightheaded than have another episode.

He was dizzy by the time the truck started moving. As they drove over the cobble stone, he was rattled against the cargo until he got a headache. When the road smoothed out, he drew his knife out of his boot and cut a tiny hole into the tarpaulin.

In this part of the city, there were more street lanterns bathing the foreign soldiers in their yellow light. His gaze hung to the sandwich one of them was eating before the truck turned the corner and the sight of something else erased every notion of food in his mind.

At the end of the broad street was a large church with two identical tall towers. Its walls looked almost white in the moonlight. Only the entrance, tall and slim, remained black.

The car took another turn and stopped in an alley. The driver cut the engine. With held breath, Henri listened to his steps disappear into a building.

Quickly, he lifted the tarpaulin up and jumped off.

His heart sank when he checked the street. Soldiers everywhere. At least fifty of them were swarming around. He took a deep breath and glanced at the door the driver had disappeared through. He could be back any moment. It was now or never.

Holding the rifle against his chest like he'd seen them do, he stepped out. He tried to look normal, unbothered, just another soldier on patrol, but all he could think of were his wet trousers and the way his emaciated form didn't fit in amidst the athletic soldiers.

Yet no one identified him as the imposter he was. He walked until he stood in the giant shadow of the cathedral. His hand trembled when he pushed against the iron gate.

A few candles were lightening up the altar at the far end of the aisle. But it was the lantern and the moon light from outside that made the colourful windows glow up. There was more: Angel statues, a big organ, depictions of biblical scenes, but Henri barely paid attention.

He walked. A few steps in, he was running. His heartbeat quickened as he reached the end of the aisle and turned right.

Behind the pillars was a set of stairs leading down to a wooden door. It was inconspicuous, no pictures, no bible quotes, no nothing. Almost ordinary. Just the way a portkey had to be.

He ran, nearly tripped down the stairs. Clinging to the door handle, he pressed it down but, of course, it didn't open. Why had he expected otherwise? He almost laughed, but forced it down. This was not the moment to get hysterical. He was too close to lose his head now.

He rattled the door, but all it did was make noise.

'Alohomora,' he whispered. 'Alohomora.' He closed his eyes. 'Alohomora, Alohomora, Alohomora, please, please, please.'

He opened his eyes and laughed. Of course, _of course,_ it didn't work. In the past, he'd brought himself in trouble dozens of times through accidental wandless magic. But the _one_ moment he needed magic to work without a wand, when it was literally a matter of life and death, it refused.

 _Fuck magic._

He lifted the rifle, tip pressed against the lock, and pressed the trigger. The shot echoed against the walls, seeming to last forever. But the lock didn't give. He shot again and again and again and only stopped when empty clicks was the thing the rifle could produce.

The door fell open.

The bright smile on his face froze. Through the ringing in his ears, he could distantly hear hurried steps and the voices of men. Shit.

He stumbled into the crypt. He tried to close the door behind him, but the lock was ruined. There was no time left. He needed to find the portkey now, or he'd get caught at last.

His heart was racing as he wildly ran through the room. There wasn't much but stone walls and stone coffins and stone statues here. He touched everything he could get his hands on as the voices became clearer.

He pulled his hair. Not now, not when the damned portkey was in the same room as him.

He turned and crawled and climbed searching for something he didn't know, but as the steps became louder his breathing became so shallow he could barely think.

 _I'm going to die here_ , he realized. There was no portkey. Maybe it had been destroyed, maybe it had never existed in the first place. Just a story made up by a fellow prisoner of Grindelwald to create some false hope in their bleak lives.

Pressing his eyes shut, he relaxed. This is the way it was going to end. It could've been worse, he guessed. Bullets were preferable to Crucios and Avada Kedavras.

He sighed.

Henri didn't want to die. But something light came over him at the thought of seeing his mother again. The way her lively eyes would shine, the way her lips would curve when she would smile and say, ' _Mon petit.'_

He stiffened and turned to the biggest stone coffin in the crypt, the grave of some bishop who'd lived and died in the fourth century. Suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.

He shoved the heavy cask cover aside. Without a moment of hesitation, he climbed into the coffin. The clicking of bones underneath him might as well have been twigs for all he cared.

All he knew is that he wasn't going to die. Not after the sacrifice Maman had brought for him. He'd spend two days in a wine barrel staring at her corpse. This, the dry, old bones of some guy he'd never known, was pure luxury in comparison.

The door creaked open just after he pushed the cover back to its place. Unlike the barrel, the coffin was nearly airtight. Everything was black.

The men's voices were hushed, their words mumbled. Sometimes the sounds were echoes, far enough for him to assume they were searching the other end of the crypt, sometimes they were clear enough for him to know they were standing right above him.

His hands clenched around the rifle before he remembered that he'd fired every single bullet away. His fingers travelled into the pocket of his jacket, but his knife wasn't there. He panicked before realizing that it was Paul's jacket, not his own, he was searching in. His hands wandered over the layers of cloth, trailing over a small, cold object.

A ring? But he didn't own a-

It was his last thought before a hook buried itself through his navel and _pulled_.

.

 _A/N: I'm looking forward to writing the next chapter. I'm starved of dialogue and other characters you guys.  
Please tell me what you thought about this one. I need feedback! __Criticism is welcome :)_


	3. End Station

**3\. End Station**

Bleak tapestry in muted tones of greyish white was the first sight to greet him when he awakened.

Maman would've hated it. Although they never had much money, she'd loved to decorate their home.

Their garden had been flourishing with herbs she needed for her potions and flowers she liked to look at. Inside, everything was wood with soft, old carpets they always walked barefoot on. Candles in Maman's favourite colours, coral pink, mint green and powder blue, would occupy the window stills and made her curse quietly when she wanted to air the house out. Sometimes the heady smell of her work room would penetrate their kitchen and mix with the scent of dried bundles of lavender and statice hanging from the low ceiling.

The smell in the windowless hospital room he was lying in reminded him of Maman's potions laboratory, acrid and stale. He'd never liked it there. Stirring and snipping was something he preferred doing in the kitchen, when the way he cut a tomato or what direction he stirred a soup in didn't matter.

Still, the familiar smell made his heart ache with memories of Maman bustling about her workplace, measuring her ingredients, distractedly calling, _'Mon petit, will you give me the aconite?'_

The door to his room opened.

'I see you're finally awake,' the man entering spoke. His steps were soft but purposeful as he walked to the chair at Henri's bed. He unbuttoned his suit coat, flattened his west coat and sat. He raised a brow. 'Can you understand me?'

Henri nodded.

'And you speak English?'

'Yes,' he croaked. His throat felt swollen. 'Where am I?'

The door opened and another man, younger but similarly dressed, bustled in and dropped on the other chair with a huff. 'You better not need anything else. They don't allow access to their potion storage, not even to ministry officials. I had to floo back to the Ministry. All of that for some Veritaserum! Ridiculous.'

Oddly enough, listening to the young man talk was calming. There was something ordinary about him, bureaucratic.

'I'm Calvert Eldridge,' the older man said. 'This is my colleague Hector Bell. You've appeared in the Ministry of Magic in London through a portkey.'

'London, as in, Britain?'

Bell snorted. 'No, the one in Uganda.'

Henri felt too queasy to be offended. He'd hoped to get farther away, to the other end of the world if possible. Britain was better than the rest of continental Europe. However, and the realisation made him break out in cold sweat, Muggle Britain was in war with Germany, and Magic Britain with Grindelwald. Dizziness overcame him, painting the edges of his vision black. Was it even safe here?

'Can you hear me?' the older one, Eldridge, asked. Bell was checking his watch.

Henri nodded, regretting it when he had to force himself to swallow bile down.

'Well, now that that is settled, we will have to conduct an interview,' Eldridge continued.

'What? Why?' Henri rasped, not even caring how weak he sounded. He was exhausted, his ankle was hurting and he felt like he'd throw up any moment.

'I haven't done anything-' _Wrong_ , Henri wanted to say. _I haven't done anything wrong._ But then he remembered the man he'd left to die under a pile of snow, like forgotten roadkill, and pressed his mouth shut.

Eldridge sighed, his hands folded neatly and his lips turned downwards as if in deep regret. Henri didn't buy it for one second.

'I understand,' he said mechanically, and it came out so flat Henri could tell Eldridge was used to emptily appeasing people. 'But you will also have to understand that your sudden appearance in our ministry has been quiet concerning, especially considering the current political climate.'

Henri frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Since July last year visitors from Germany, France, Italy and Poland are under close watch,' Bell explained. 'We traced the portkey back to Orléans. That's where you came from, right?'

Henri nodded. 'What was the portkey anyway? I've been searching for it but I must've ended up touching it by accident.'

Bell laughed. 'I'm not surprised! We didn't know it existed either! The portkey was a ring, hidden in the robes of the remains of a bishop. We believe it was left there by a wizard during the First World War to travel home in cases of emergency.'

'We'd assumed we'd destroyed all portkeys from that period,' Eldridge admitted. 'How did you find it?'

Henri stiffened. 'The others told me.'

'Others?'

The way Eldridge said it, like he was barely restraining himself from pulling his notebook out and writing the names down, made Henri's hackles rise.

'Others on the run from Grindelwald.'

'Can you give us any names?'

Henri held his gaze. 'No. It was a rumour going around. I don't know who originated it.'

Eldridge smiled, and Henri knew that he'd been caught on a lie. 'In any case,' he said in a tone that told him they weren't over done, 'considering the circumstances that you have experienced firsthand, you will understand that visitors from areas of uproar concern us.'

It finally clicked. 'You think I'm part of Grindelwald's Army?' he asked incredulously, his voice coming uncomfortably close to shriek.

'That is a broad statement,' Eldridge said with a patronizing smile. 'But we are forced to consider every possibility.'

'Orders from higher-up,' Bell quipped. 'You wouldn't believe what Grindelwald's looneys pull to infiltrate our circles.'

'Since you have arrived here without application,' Eldridge continued, 'and since you have no one to confirm your identity as well as your intentions, we are forced to investigate.'

Henri's mouth hung open. 'Application? What, do I have apply for a visa or something?'

Bell held his hand up. 'Officially-'

'Sorry, I was too busy trying not to die.'

Bell had the decency to look embarrassed, but Eldridge proceeded. 'I'm sure you were,' he said, completely unfazed, 'but if you can't name a person to vouch for you we have no choice but look into this issue on our own account.'

Henri leaned back and stared at the grey ceiling. After months of fighting and fleeing for his life, having to deal with bureaucracy of all things almost made him laugh. He'd been worrying about so many things. How to escape Grindelwald's Army, how to pass through the occupied area undetected, how to reach the cathedral of Orléans. Never in all of this did he spend a single second on whether the place he'd escape to would accept him.

'Can you name a person who will vouch for you?' Eldridge drew out.

'Person?' Henri asked, his voice hollow. Who, other than Maman, had he ever really known?

'The latest statutes request somebody who is out of age, has lived in Britain for at least ten years, has no criminal record and isn't being suspected to have casted unforgivable magic,' Eldridge explained unhelpfully.

'No,' Henri said, 'I have no one.'

'Alright then,' Eldridge said, brushing over his striped tie, 'we should begin.' He reached his hand out for Bell to drop a vial in. Veritaserum.

'No.'

'Excuse me?'

'You won't be getting any access to my mind, no way,' he shut down.

'This is only a way for us to understand your intentions,' Bell droned but Henri had stopped listening.

The mere thought of sharing what happened to Paul made him want to throw up. Sometimes he managed to convince himself that it all had just been a bad dream. But memory was like weeds. No matter what rock Henri buried it under, it reared its head from the cracks. If he told someone, if he actually said it out loud, he would never be able forget. It would make it real.

Besides, Eldridge would ask how he'd found out about the portkey. He didn't want to get Hugo and Maud in trouble.

Suddenly, he realized something. If the ministry hadn't known about this portkey, no one could've used it in recent time. Hugo and Maud had never reached it. Did that mean they were still in France? How? They'd been so much stronger than him. How had he gotten to the portkey before them?

He remembered their last day together too well. Sometimes he dreamed so vividly of it he was convinced to be still with them when he woke up.

He'd been on the run. The attack on the town near Grandmother's chateau hadn't happened at random. They'd been searching for Maman. She'd done something forbidden, even for the standards of witches and wizards who didn't support Grindelwald.

Grandmother had cut all ties with Maman once she'd gotten seventeen years old. Never having received a formal education, she managed herself with badly paying jobs. But when she got pregnant with Henri only one year later and his father abandoned her, the little money she made didn't cut it anymore.

It started small. She sold sleeping draughts or pepperup potions to muggles. Forbidden, but nothing that would make muggles suspect her of mixing more than a few herbs together. It progressed to poison antidotes, strengthening solutions, and, when the pay was good enough, something undeniably magical like invisibility potion.

Colette, the forest-witch, is what the villagers used to call her. It sounded like something straight out of their muggle fairy tales.

Traitor, is what Grindelwald's Army called her.

Henri was hunted for a simpler reason: His questionable blood status. They caught him one month after Maman's death. He'd been on his way to the port of Marseille after realizing that remaining in France would only end to his early death. He hadn't been the only one to have that idea and Grindelwald's men had known. They'd caught hundreds of witches and wizards trying to leave the country. Too many to kill on the spot, in fact.

Restrained and with their wands stolen and snapped, they'd been transferred to a hastily set up prison in the south. Hundreds of other prisoners had already been staying there. Each day, a few of them disappeared only to be replaced by new ones.

Henri had been staying in a cell with Hugo, Maud and five other strangers. When the faces around him started to register as 'new', he knew there was little time left. Four weeks was the longest lifespan a prisoner could hope for. Henri lasted three weeks before Hugo and Maud broke out.

They were strong, practiced in simple wandless magic. It was at night when they'd unlocked all cells one by one, so soundless that no one, not even the ones sitting inside the cells had noticed. Henri had been one of few who'd known beforehand. Not because they'd wanted him in, but because it was difficult to practice their spells in secret when Henri barely slept because nightmares kept him up.

In a matter of two minutes everyone was storming through the narrow halls. It was what Hugo and Maud wanted: Chaos.

'Don't follow us,' Maud had said. 'They'll catch us easily if we're together. Each of us has to run into a different direction. Some won't make it, but even less would make it if we stuck together. Fighting would be delusional. We can only run.'

So Henri had run. He hadn't known where to and his legs had been cramping, but he'd kept on running and didn't stop running until he reached Orléans. And now he knew he couldn't rest yet.

'I'm leaving,' he interrupted Bell's speech.

'Huh?'

Even Eldridge looked surprised, his usually unimpressed brows raised all the way to his receding hairline. 'What do you mean?' Bell blurted.

'I'm leaving Britain today.' He pulled the sheets aside. The world spun when he stood, but after briefly steadying himself against the edge of the bed, he strode to the cupboard. His backpack and his clothes, washed and folded, were there.

'Are you serious?' Bell broke out of his stupor. 'Then why did you come here in the first place?'

Henri didn't answer. Hate filled him, an all-consuming heat that warmed him from within, the cold of France a mere memory. _"Why had he come here?_ " These people knew nothing. Watching the war from the sidelines, the newspapers during breakfast the only reminder that, oh yeah, innocent people are being murdered overseas. They would find out soon. The war would reach Britain and some ugly, vicious part in Henri hoped that Eldridge and Bell would have nowhere to go when they would fear for their own lives.

Despite the heat, he put his coat on after having changed out of his hospital gown in the adjoined bathroom. In the mirror, he almost hadn't recognised himself. A flush was reddening his pale skin and the sharp edges of his cheekbones and clavicles were throwing dark shadows over his body. At least he was clean. Hopefully the nurses had only used a cleaning spell and hadn't actually bathed him.

Back in the hospital room, he strode to the rubbish bin and threw Paul's jacket away, wishing he could cast an Incendio to vanish it alongside the memories. But even if he had a wand, Bell was still sitting on the chair watching him silently. Thank Jeanne, Eldridge had gotten lost. His patronizing words and arrogant smiles had made Henri's skin crawl. At least Bell wasn't actively trying to be an arse.

'How's your ankle?' Bell asked.

Henri stared at him, turning his words over and searching for an ulterior motive. Bell was in his early thirties with neatly parted light-brown hair. The pattern of his tie didn't consist of tiny polka dots like Henri had initially thought; they were little red apples that only a child could've picked out.

'Hurts,' he admitted.

'The healers gave you bone-mending potions. The break was too complicated for a spell.'

Henri nodded, unsure what to say.

Sensing his uneasiness, Bell explained, 'I've got to see you off, make sure you actually leave the country.'

He rose and held the door open. With Bell on his heels, Henri limped to the reception to be checked out. The receptionist glanced at him sceptically but didn't say anything when Bell urged her to hurry.

They left the hospital and stepped into a muggle department store the hospital was hidden in. Henri watched the many shops with big eyes. He'd never seen so many of them in one place.

Almost all his life he'd lived in a little hut in the forest. At the edge of the forest had been a little muggle village with a baker and a butcher. The town near grandmother's chateau had already been a big deal for him with its cafés, wine shops and tailors.

But this was something else entirely. At each corner mannequins were dressed in glittery fabrics, knee-length dresses and pinstriped suits. They were even selling trousers for women!

'It's gotten a little empty in here ever since Britain entered war,' Bell said. 'The middle class has barely enough to get by. Makes it difficult to get to St. Mungo's without attracting attention.'

Henri wasn't so sure about that. Maman and he had 'barely gotten by', but their conditions had been much different. They'd sewn the holes in their clothes up a dozen times before they'd even considered buying anything new.

He dodged a woman holding her daughter's wrist in one hand and a large shopping bag in another. Only in Grindelwald's prison had he seen so many people on one spot.

Finally, they exited the department store and entered the cobbled streets. The sky was grey and it was drizzling rain. But, to his relief, there was not one snowflake in sight. The roads weren't even frozen over.

He barely had time to admire the change of scenery when he was almost run over by a man in a trench coat.

'Come on, come on,' Bell called, 'You can't just keep standing there!'

Henri nervously followed Bell through the masses, not an easy task with his short legs and his injured ankle. But Henri had gotten used to that. What actually held him back were the many people power-walking from every direction like their homes were on fire. For all he knew they might be. Some buildings were in ruins, similar to the ones in Orléans. The Germans had started dropping bombs a year or two ago.

Bell waved him over to the other side of the street towards a park where it was a little less crowded. 'Wait here. I'll be right back.' He motioned to a bank and hurried to a café.

Tulips, daffodils and hyacinths were already growing, reminding him of Maman's gardens. He picked one hyacinth and held it to his nose. For one moment, everything was silent but the wind in the trees. Maman and he were in the gardens, watering the herbs and flowers.

'Here,' Bell said. Henri could've cried when he opened his eyes and found himself sitting in the unfamiliar park. Instead, he took a deep breath and smelled the citric scent wafting from Bell's steaming paper cup.

Bell reached it out alongside a paper bag. 'Earl Grey and carrot cake.'

Henri stared at the bag. Carrot cake. At this point, he couldn't even remember when he ate his last piece of rock-hard bread. He was starving. Yet his hands stayed firmly on his thighs. He hated handouts.

Bell sat next to him and dropped the bag on his lap, still holding the cup. 'If you aren't going to eat it, I'll throw it away. I don't eat sweet food.'

Reluctantly, Henri picked the bag with two fingers, careful and slow, as if it'd explode any second. He took a sip of the tea.

'Thank you,' he sighed, because Maman had taught him pride, but she'd also taught him manners.

'What do they say in France? Mercy?'

Henri chuckled at his pronunciation and opened the paper bag, the wonderful scent of sweetness making his mouth water. 'It's _merci.'_

'Same thing,' Bell muttered.

Henri wasn't paying attention anymore. He'd taken his first bite of carrot cake and right then it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. _Eight, nine, ten_ , he chewed, careful not to swallow it down in one bite to make it last as long as possible.

It was genuine sorrow that overcame him when the bag was finally empty. He sipped at his tea, allowing it to soothe his sore throat.

'Where will you go?' Bell asked.

'To the harbour. I was thinking about taking a ship.'

'Where to?'

Henri shrugged. 'I'm not sure. I'll decide when I'm there.' That was a lie, but Henri was too paranoid to tell Bell the truth. His destination was a different continent: America. The US was out of question, they'd entered the war last December. Canada had been a prospect, they even spoke French in some parts, but they were involved, too. He was thinking of Middle or South America. He didn't speak any Spanish, but he would gladly learn if it meant living in a safe country.

'We better get going then,' Bell said.

 **.**

Thankfully, the Port of London was nothing like the Port of Marseille. The water was murkier, or maybe the grey clouds and the weak rain made it seem like that.

Bell had watched him off. Henri imagined him standing at the docks, his frown sceptical yet concerned as he waited for the ship Henri snuck into to set off.

The churning noise of the inner machinery made him dizzy and disoriented, or maybe it was the shaking ground, the salty smell, the stuffy air. His legs were already cramping in the little cargo box he was sitting in. How long would it take to arrive in America?

Just a little more, he promised to himself, just last a little more. Once he arrived he wouldn't ever hide in narrow spaces anymore. Maybe he'd live on the streets. The idea, once a sour possibility, suddenly seemed exhilarating. In the fresh night air he'd warm his hands at a campfire, laughing and talking with people who were like him.

A grating jar tore him out of his dreams. The door to the cargo room was opened. Soft but purposeful steps echoed through the little cracks into his box. The wood splintered and broke, shooting a few splinters into his skin. The box fell apart. Over him, Eldridge was standing with his nose wrinkled in disgust as if he'd just found a particularly fat rat in his pantry.

'End station.'

 **.**

 **A/N:** **Okay, be honest, is it dragging along? I felt like the chapter was necessary to tell you more of Henri's past but I don't know if it was well presented if you know what I mean? Please give me some honest feedback and tips on what do instead. I've got a plan concerning this story, but I'm always tweaking and changing as I go along.**


	4. Wounded Wings Still Beating

**4\. Wounded Wings Still Beating**

Henri didn't resist when Eldridge grabbed his arm and apparated away. The cake threatened to make a return, but he forced the bile down and waited for the dizziness to pass as Eldridge forcibly dragged him along.

It was silent. They were away from the port, away from the city. This place was nothing like the busy streets of London. They were standing in front of the gates of a mansion bigger than grandmother's chateau, surrounded by fields of green as far as he could see.

A house-elf, skinnier than any of its kind he'd ever met, ran out of the building and opened the gates. 'Good afternoon, sir. Lord Potter is waiting for you, sir,' she said.

Eldridge strode on without as much as a nod, the grip on his arm loosening. The eternal runner in Henri urged him to take the chance and make a dash for the exit. Yet when the gates closed behind him with an iron rattle, he was filled with relief. Finally, he could give up. The voice of his guilty conscience could rest with the knowledge that there was nothing more that he could do. He had given his everything, and what was left was an exhausted shell of a person.

The doors opened to an elderly man standing at the entrance. His silver hair and countless frown lines only added to the graveness he exuded. Yet he held himself like someone less than half his age, back straight, shoulders broad, his form slim, but not lanky.

Henri was baffled when the man ignored Eldridge in favour of holding his hand out for _Henri_ to shake. Unsure, Henri put his hand limply into his. The man's grip was strong and warm.

'I'm Richard Potter,' he said, the crowfeet near his grey eyes deepening as he smiled. 'But you can call me Grandfather, Henri.'

Henri stiffened. With held breath, he stared at the silver hair, so unfittingly messy for a person of his obvious standing, and the straight-bridged nose that enforced the man's serious, sombre features, but had always looked a little strange on Henri's delicate ones.

Eldridge coughed. 'Once again, Lord Potter, we are very sorry about what has transpired. You must know this is not normal procedure.'

The man's gaze moved to Eldridge. His eyes were unnerving, the type that'd make your neck prickle and fidget in your seat.

'Thistle,' he said to the house-elf, 'accompany Mr. Eldridge out.'

Thistle grinned, a grotesque expression on her bony face. 'After you, sir. The anti-apparation wards in the mansion will not allow you to disapparate from inside the gates.'

The doors were shut, leaving Henri with the strange man standing in the large, chandelier-lit hall.

'May Millie take your coat, sir?'

Henri startled. A big-eyed house-elf was staring expectantly at him, her hands stretched out. His heart rate picked up, rousing from its drowsy state. Dizziness was muddling with his vision, threatening to make his knees buckle.

He wondered how much longer he had to force his body and spirit to continue functioning until he could finally rest. This lunacy should've been over by the time he'd left France. Yet somehow, the hospital, the streets of London and this ridiculously opulent mansion overwhelmed him more than fleeing from the ruins of his home country had.

'Prepare lunch, Millie,' Lord Potter ordered. 'Tell Thistle to lead Henry to the drawing room once he arrives.'

A big hand landed on Henri's shoulder. The fingers, long and thin, curled around Henri's slim joint with ease. 'Come,' he said, softly pushing him along.

Richard Potter had to be the richest person he'd ever met. Golden-framed scenery portraits decorated the tall crème walls of the halls they strode through. Henri searched for any discoloration in the paint, but every square centimetre was perfectly unmarred. Chrystal chandeliers hung from the intricately patterned high ceiling. Unlike the weathered floors in Henri's childhood home, the dark, varnished wood panels remained silent when you walked on them.

When they arrived at the drawing room, Richard sat on the leather sofa, staring at him expectantly. Henri sank into the buttery-soft space at the other end.

'Are you cold?' Richard asked, motioning to the flickering fireplace.

Henri followed Richard's gaze and realized that his hands were trembling. He formed fists, forcing them to still. 'No, I'm fine.' In fact, he was uncomfortably hot. The sweat pouring down his back had seeped through his old, ratty sweater.

If the man was affected by the tension hanging in the air, he didn't let it show. There was an air of unbending confidence about him, as if he'd never once been proven wrong in his sixty-something year old life.

'What do you want from me?' Henri croaked. His throat was sore, swallowing hurt.

'You aren't one for niceties, are you?' Richard said, an amused grin spreading over his face and softening the lines on his forehead. 'I like that. You know, Henri, there's nothing I hate more than beating around the bush. You are here because you are my grandson.'

Henri exhaled audibly. Maman's father, a useless excuse of a man as she had liked to refer to him, had died of some ailment when Henri was little. They hadn't attended his funeral, not that they had been invited. Richard Potter claimed to be his unknown father's father.

He met the man's unwavering gaze. 'I don't know you.'

'That does not change the fact that you are a Potter. As a direct descendant of my lineage, you are my responsibility.'

Henri laughed humourlessly. 'Responsibility?' He didn't say any more, he didn't need to. Funny that folks gathered some sense of responsibility after fifteen years of nothing to show for. Where was his father's sense of responsibility when he left Maman pregnant and poor to fend for herself? She used to struggle putting bread on the table while little Potter was living lavishly amidst all this opulence.

He was glad to catch Lord Potter finally shift in his seat. But the satisfaction of making the confident man uncomfortable was quickly replaced by the realisation of what he sounded like.

Like he cared. As if he gave a fuck about a man he'd never even known. And after everything that happened? What did an absent father matter after what he'd experienced in the past months? Ridiculous.  
He wanted to voice his thoughts, but that would only make it look like he cared when he really didn't. Before he could make the mistake to blurt it out anyway, someone knocked on the door.

'Enter.'

Thistle peeked her misshapen head through the crack.

'Thistle is sorry for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Henry Potter has arrived, sir.'

Richard nodded. 'Let him in,' he said, seemingly unaffected. But Henri was gradually getting used to the old man's presence and caught the light flaring of his nostrils when he took a deep breath.

Henri found out why the moment Henry Potter passed the threshold. The black hair, the strong brows, the jutting cheekbones – all of Henri's features that he'd never managed to find on his mother. He knew before the man even opened his mouth and said, 'Good afternoon, father.'

'Good afternoon, Henry.'

Henry Potter walked to the sitting area with slow, measured steps and sat on the couch. He raised his brows when he spotted Henri who'd previously been hidden by the back of the sofa.

'I see you have a guest.'

There was wonder in his voice. Someone like Henri, half-starved and in torn clothing, didn't belong amidst all this wealth and fortune. Richard, Henry, and even Thistle knew that.

'Is he sick? You seem a little pale, son.'

Henri lifted his gaze to Richard, pleading. But Richard soldiered on.

'The journey from France to England is quite stressful. Being interviewed by ministry officials at his arrival has left him shaken as you can imagine.'

Henry threw his hands in the air. 'Unbelievable! I've been telling Spencer-Moon that our treatment of war-refugees is inhumane. It was bad enough when they were harassing regular folk, but now they're bothering children, too? Without a legal guardian at that? It has to be brought to discussion at the Wizengamot.'

Henri sat frozen, listening to the man get angry _on his behalf_.

Richard crossed his long legs. 'The latest topics revolve around curbing Grindelwald's influence in British circles. War-survivors have lost priority, since many of them don't even manage to escape anymore. Our Henri is an exception.'

Henry turned to Henri, a bright smile on his boyish face. 'The Henri to my Henry,' he joked.

'Yes,' Richard snorted, a strange sound coming from someone so dignified. 'You must've left quite the impression on his mother.'

If Henri hadn't been so horribly uncomfortable, he would've laughed at the way Henry's face fell. His skin prickled as the man's stare pierced through him.

Unperturbed, Richard continued. 'Calvert Eldridge always liked to push the boundaries of our poorly upheld legal system. After Henri refused to comply, he took his blood samples from St. Mungo's and compared them with the Ministry records. He'd hoped to find a familial connection to Grindelwald's supporters. I can only imagine his surprise when they matched him with the Potter line. I know for a fact that _I_ didn't have an extramarital affair fifteen years ago. Fleamont had just started working full-time at the ministry. Charlus was staying at Hogwarts.' Richard smiled coldly. 'Our limited numbers leaves me with only one possible outcome. And imagine my surprise when he arrived at my doorstep! He resembles you more than Fleamont does, I must say.'

Henri pressed his hands together, trying to suppress the violent trembles that became stronger by the minute. His body felt foreign. The glass table reflected blue eyes and blonde hair. He didn't stray his gaze from the familiar stranger for the fear of seeing the blood dripping down his torn thigh.

'What is your mother's name, Henri?' Richard asked.

Henri leapt to his feet, swaying slightly, with his hand pressed against his mouth. Without waiting to be excused he strode out towards the hall. After opening half a dozen doors, he finally found the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet and threw up. The sharp smell of half-digested carrot cake and sour Earl Grey made him gag even after the meagre contents of his stomach had left.

Leaning his back against the cool porcelain tub, he listened to his loud gasps echo off the walls. Behind his lids, the world was red. He preferred the white of the tiles. He was so cold.

The door opened. From Henri's position on the floor, Richard seemed impossibly tall. Distantly, he wondered whether he would ever grow to be as big.

Richard crouched down and held the back of his hand against Henri's sweaty forehead. This close Henri could distinguish a frown drawing even more lines into his skin. 'You're running a temperature. Can you stand?'

Henri nodded weakly and rinsed his mouth in the sink before following Richard down the hall and up the stairs. Amidst trying not to tumble down from dizziness, he didn't keep track of where he was walking to. Only Richard's steady hand on his back was steering him along.

When he sank into soft sheets, he was nearly unconscious. It was only Richard's powerful presence that kept his eyes at half-mast. Then, the man did something that shocked him out of his daze. He sat on his bedside, pulled Henri's feet onto his expensively clad thighs, and pulled his dirty boots off.

'Don't you know who I am?' he slurred, his voice strained.

Richard pulled the comforter up to his chest. 'Yes,' he said, his face calm and relaxed. 'My grandson.'

Henri blinked. 'You asked for my mother's name.'

Richard stilled, staring at him expectantly. So Henry hadn't told him. Did Henry even know? Was his mother the only woman he cheated on his wife with? The thought of Maman being one of many didn't sit right with him. The least she'd deserved was a love-filled, if tragic, romance.

'Nicolette Durant. She usually went by Colette.'

'That's a beautiful name.'

'She was born out of wedlock after her father, some French wizarding nobility, had an affair with a witch on her summer break from Beauxbatons. The pregnancy was kept secret and the witch married someone else the following year. The only thing she gave my mother was her maiden name, the remnant of a forgotten French wizarding house.'

'So you are the last Durant?'

'Yes.'

Richard smiled. 'A pity. I had hoped you wouldn't be too attached to it. Henri Potter has a ring to it. I suppose Henri Durant Potter will have to do.'

Something clogged Henri's throat, making it hard to swallow. This man was offering him his family name, a part of his nobility. 'You're strange.' Richard laughed at that. 'You must know that my entire existence is a shameful stain on your family tree.'

Richard's laugh died down. 'Is that what you've been told? I suggest you forget that nonsense immediately.' His voice low, leaning forwards, he said, 'You will soon find that people will think twice before saying that to the face of a Potter.'

'Henry didn't seem too happy to see me,' Henri deflected weakly.

'How good then,' Richard said, his lips quirking into a satisfied grin, 'that he has no say as long as I am the head of the House of Potter.'

Those were the last words he heard. He melted into the mattress, relaxed and calm. It was the first time in months he felt safe.

 **.**

He startled awake, sensing the presence of a stranger before he could open his eyes. The faint smell of potions lied in the air, sour and bitter.

Standing at his bedside, was a middle-aged woman wearing dark robes and a pair of square glasses. 'Just in time,' she said neutrally, her face impassive. The look of a scientist dissecting her subject, curious, yet distant and cold. Henri knew that these people were of the more dangerous kind. They were like snakes, stalking their prey with silent tenacity and were very hard to distract.

Henri sat up slowly, hands gripping the sheets. 'Who are you?'

'Isolda Wright.' She opened her leather briefcase on the nightstand, exposing a ray of tins and potions. 'Private healer of Lord Potter since 1922.' A trace of sentimentality passed over her face. 'How time flies! Back then, Henry's first was your age.'

'We are on a tight schedule, Isolda.'

Wright nodded stiffly. 'Yes, of course, Lord Potter.'

She pulled her wand out. As she raised it, Henri backed further against the pillows in small, slow slides. His lips were pressed close, trying to silence his treacherously loud breathing. His eyes flitted around the room. A window to his left, guarded by a tall, dark figure. The door to his right, blocked by the woman. He was trapped.

A loud gasp escaped him when a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

'Henri,' the man said.

'Who are you?' Henri whispered.

Carefully, the man sat at his bedside. Henri leaned further back, trying to keep both strangers in his field of vision.

'It's me, your grandfather. Don't you remember? You arrived here two days ago.'

Henri eyed him dubiously. 'My grandfather died more than a decade ago.'

The man's gaze moved to the woman. She closed her bag with a loud click. 'I think that we might need the expertise of a different kind of healer.'

There was a knock on the door before it opened to a skinny house-elf. As Henri saw its bald, misshapen head, he suddenly remembered. The hospital, the ministry officials, the mansion, his grandfather. His father. 'Thistle.'

Grandfather turned. 'Henri, are you back?'

Henri nodded, not daring to meet his gaze. What was happening to him? Was he finally starting to lose his mind? After the constant fear and paranoia, was it the semblance of safety that'd made him break down?

'Henri,' Grandfather stressed, 'this is my personal healer, Isolda Wright. I trust her with my health and yours. Do you feel well enough to let her run a diagnosis spell on you?'

No, he didn't. He felt very shaky, as if he'd fall into shards at any given moment never to be made whole again. But he didn't want to show just how unstable he was and concern Grandfather any further. He nodded hesitantly.

He closed his eyes tightly, feeling cold as Wright said, 'You won't feel anything.'

The seconds passed like syrup, Henri awaiting pain despite Wright's assurance.

'All done,' she quipped, her voice forced into a cheerful pitch that sounded painfully faked. 'Would you like to discuss the results in private, Lord Potter?'

Grandfather hesitated. 'No. Obviously, they concern Henri, too. You can be candid.' He turned to Henri. 'Unless you wouldn't like to hear them.'

Actually, Henri _didn't w_ ant to hear them. He already knew what was wrong with him. In the past months, he'd almost been beaten to death, cursed with unspeakable spells, starved, and nearly driven out of his mind. He didn't need a healer's diagnosis to confirm that. Shrugging, he avoided their gazes.

Grandfather sighed. 'Thistle, serve Henri some breakfast. Any wishes, Henri?'

He shook his head. 'I'm not picky.'

Grandfather smiled fondly and brushed through Henri's messy hair before leading Wright out of the room.

A room, a bed, all for him. It felt foreign after all this time on the run. Pulling the blanket aside, he noticed that he was wearing clothes that didn't belong to him. A shirt and a pair of soft cotton trousers that felt new and expensive.

He stood up and his vision went dark. Clinging to the bedpost, he waited for the dizziness to pass. When he was finally seeing clearly again, he walked over to the window and nearly fell into the nearby couch.

Outside, the sun was shining weakly through the thin mist. It'd be raining soon. There was a large garden outside, at its centre a pond with petals of delicate spring flowers swimming on the clear, still surface.

Henri turned. Thistle was standing at the doorway, holding a tray with various dishes. It looked very different from what Maman used to prepare every morning. Henri recognized the bread, the fried tomatoes, the poached egg, the jam and the honey, but he stared quizzically at the bowl of brown-orange sludge.

'Porridge prepared with cinnamon pumpkin juice,' Thistle explained. 'Very nutritious. I wouldn't miss out on it, Mr. Potter. Millie is a very capable cook.' At last, the elf placed a glass of juice and a cup of steaming Darjeeling on the table. She left as silently as she'd come.

Curiously, Henri dipped the spoon into the sludge and watched it dribble down. It looked strange. He stared at the warm, fresh array of food. He picked up the bowl and smelled at it. Cinnamon and pumpkin. The jam, strawberry. The honey, clover. The juice, oranges. All for him?

His hand was trembling as he dipped the spoon into the porridge once again and led the sludge to his mouth. He moaned quietly. It had so much flavour and settled into his stomach so nicely. From there on, he dipped into each plate. One roasted tomato, half a poached egg, a bite of toast and a spoonful of jam so sweet it was almost impossible to swallow. He dribbled some honey into his cup of tea and let the hot brew soothe his sore throat.

'I see you're enjoying the British cuisine.' Grandfather was smiling gently. His expression, thank Jeanne, was unreadable.

Henri nodded. 'It's different.'

Grandfather sat on the coach next to his and looked at the dishes. 'It seems that Millie was careful not to give you too big of a culture shock. There is a lot more for you to explore.'

'I would love to, but,' he sighed, spreading his palm over his stomach, finding it a little harder to breathe, 'I don't think I can eat any more.'

'Take it easy. We wouldn't want you to get sick again. Isolda has me worried about you being dehydrated.'

Henri smiled at him gratefully and forced himself to finish his tea. The dehydration was not even the tip of the iceberg of his issues, but it was the easiest to focus on. When his eyes began to droop, Grandfather helped him back to his large bed.

In his dream, Maman was sitting in the clover fields with a basket full of strawberries. There was a childlike smile playing on her features. 'Look, I found one with four leaves.'

A/N: Ok, so I thought how about I'll make something revolutionary and end a chapter on a happy and hopeful note for once? Mind-blowing, I know.

Anyway, I know this late update is annoying but I ran out of steam when I finished the third chapter. I was so focused on the plot point of getting Henri to where he's now, I was at a loss of what to do once he arrived there (although I do have a rough plan of this story). I wrote like six versions of this chapter, but I'm finally happy with the end result.

What about you? How did you like this chapter? Honest feedback is appreciated! Your critique is helping me improve my writing, whether it be positive or negative, as long as it constructive.


End file.
